


A Glance of Past #13-2-2

by Palytoxin



Series: Love & Pride [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Australia Open, Australian open 2017, Australian open2009, Breakup(implied), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 00:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13492743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palytoxin/pseuds/Palytoxin
Summary: Something happened at the fifth set. What could they do to deal with that? The forbidden past leaked out unintentionally.





	A Glance of Past #13-2-2

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post at AO3. I'm not a native speaker of English and always confuse about the tense. This is actually my draft for Chinese version. So if anyone finds any mistakes or errors about my English, please just let me know. I appreciate your help. Thanks for your reading and comment. xoxo
> 
>  
> 
> 20180219: update for correction of English

He clearly knew what happened at the fifth set, the fear of victory caught him again, not exactly like that of Wimbledon final 2007, but it ended the same way, he lost.

 

The chaos after his first Australian open final had kept haunting him like a ghost that never let go. Roger’s tears, the divorce of his parents, frustration with his relationship, merciless injuries and the pregnancy, they ate him up. He felt the emptiness inside himself time after time, and now it had become a black hole trapping him inside. He watched the shots pass through him. He forced his body to move, but the instinctive dread wouldn’t give in. He flinched, the first time on the court, facing Roger. He knew he would lose, without a doubt. You couldn’t win if you didn’t believe it. He said it to himself eight years ago, it was still true for sure. And he had been too frightened to fight back.

 

Melbourne was always “nice” to him. But the dark shadow upon Rod Laver Arena had never faded away since 2009. He lost bitterly and cried every time here. But none of those losses were more terrible than that miserable win that cost him too much. He wouldn’t cry tonight, not in front of Roger. He didn’t want to. He blanked his face, holding those emotions back, awaiting the final execution. The match point swept through him like a gunshot. He struggled with his very last power, he called the challenge, and fell.

 

Things were spinning in his head, he felt dizzy. The adrenaline ebbed away. His limbs were numb and trembling as well as his mind. He had better keep it shut down. Otherwise, he would fall apart on the podium. Roger acted like he knew of all the inner storm blowing inside him; he glanced at him constantly, as if he had shattered into pieces. But he had already been wrecked several years before.

 

The ceremony was like a blur, he hardly remembered what he said. The ground under his feet was wobbling. The spotlight blinded him. He ran away as quick as he could. The presser was terrible, too. His tongue was tied.

 

He had no memory about coming back to his room. He buried himself beneath the cold white sheets without changing his outfit. The shadow beyond the reach of the bedside lamp in this huge empty room mixed with the life-long nightmare of darkness haunted him. He shouldn’t feel cold in the hot, humid Melbourne night but he was shivering. He grasped the fabric tightly, even his knuckles went white. He curled himself into a ball, he felt bone-tired, but sleepless. The one who could reassure him no longer exist anymore.

 

Somehow he lost consciousness while his phone kept buzzing inside his gear bag until it ran out of battery.

 

 

***

 

 

Something definitely happened at that final set. All of sudden, Rafa looked frightened and desperate liked a wounded animal. He’s afraid that he might hurt his knees, wrists, or somewhere else. Rafa had gotten hurt in almost every part of his body but he couldn’t afford thinking about anything else except the game itself at that time. Although Rafa and he had a lot of different opinions, the only thing that Rafa would never disagree with him about was giving one hundred percent and never holding back whatever happened on the court. He probably didn’t give his all on every match, but when it came to Rafa, there’s no way he could hold back. You couldn’t lie to your rival, and Rafa was the only one he admitted to. The last few points went fast, he just hit it everywhere he could relentlessly. He didn’t dare to meet Rafa’s eye and Rafa didn’t give up, he never would. He struggled, although it wasn’t enough. His call fell, it was in.

 

He was overjoyed. It had been a long long time since his last grand slam trophy, and much longer since he had beaten Rafa in a grand slam final. Moreover, he came back from the worst injury of his career. He once doubted himself that he couldn’t play anymore. This win freed him, but the soreness in his mind was so real, too, he felt like it broke. Rafa also came back from injury and he already knew how hard it was.

 

The net hug was a lot shorter than he expected. He missed all those small touches over his back and tummy, the pressing pressure between their sweaty temples and the nonsense whispers. But none of them happened this time. Rafa pulled back too soon to let him say any consoling words.

 

The ceremony was the hardest part for the losing side. You couldn’t just go away like in a quarter-final or semi-final. You had to stand there and listen to people talking about the other’s win and your loss. He didn’t do well last time here and Rafa was the most generous person for holding him up. The scene of their last final here was spinning in his head. Rafa was never a bad loser but he decided whether it happened or not, he wouldn’t let him collapse on the podium.

 

Rafa gave his speech first, not bad, but clearly not his usual performance. He spoke faster, his accent got heavier, the interruptions between sentences, he was trying to cheer up, but those little differences all showed how unsettled he was. He wanted to give some reassurance, but Rafa just wouldn’t let him. Then it was his turn to say something. Rafa’s eyes were on him but he couldn’t see him. He looked like he was somewhere else, not here, not in Rod Laver Arena, not on the court, not on the podium. His face was blank and still, lips pressed into a straight line, like a statue. He couldn’t help himself and kept turning his head, checking on Rafa time after time. He tried everything he could to drag him back and he eventually got a tiny bitter smile with a little bit of shyness and embarrassment. He really meant it, the draw. He would never accept one, except with Rafa, and it’s also true that tennis needed Rafa, and also he. After that, they were photoed together and the ceremony ended. He couldn’t do anything but let Rafa go. He had his obligations, and so did Rafa.

 

He almost forgot the routines after a grand slam win. A lot of photo shoots, pressers, everybody wanted to talk to him, organizers, sponsors, journalists, his team, and family. He hardly found time to call Rafa. It cast light on how determined Rafa was back in 2009, his phone kept buzzing and texts flooding into his inbox non-stop. Rafa just didn’t care about anything but him. He felt his heart aching for young Rafa, ashamed. How he was frightened by his tears and still managed to reassure him and do everything well at the same time, he didn’t know. Rafa still didn’t answer his calls or texts.

 

He finally saw Toni at the lobby by midnight. Rafa and he were staying in the same hotel this year. He knew those Spaniards' eating habit, they usually had a late dinner, especially after a grand slam final, but Rafa wasn’t there. He couldn’t suppress his worries and caught Toni for a private conversation. He asked about Rafa’s well-being but Toni just said he was not a 23-year-old boy anymore and couldn’t recover from a five-sets semi-final soon enough to play another five-sets final in two days, and congratulated him for playing well. He was irrationally worried, and not convinced, so the older Spaniard just gave him his keycard and said he could check on Rafa by himself.

 

 

***

 

 

He knocked before he opened the door with the keycard. It was completely dark inside the living area. Rafa never liked the dark, as he knew. He always switched on all the lights, even the TV. He couldn’t be calm because of the unusualness of it all. He finally found a faint light leaking through the gap below the door of the bedroom.

 

He managed to open the door and walk in as quietly as he could. Then he heard Rafa howling in his sleep. They all had bad dreams with the stress they put on themselves, but Rafa’s nightmares were much more than that. He knew of them by the few nights they spent together ten years ago. He kneeled by the bed and pushed those sweaty locks back from his pale face. His skin was so damp and cold. And Rafa began sobbing, then gazed at him, tears spilling down his cheeks. God...how long had it been since the last time Rafa cried in front of him? And the eyes, these liquid amber eyes, so soft and pliable, it’s Rafael’s eyes, those he once thought he would never see again. Rafa was definitely still dreaming, and he didn’t dare to break the spell.

 

Rogelio..., Rafa was calling him, like once he was an affectionate young boy. He did nothing but hold him tight and kiss his wet temple. Rafa didn’t change his outfit. It should be uncomfortable, those soaked fabrics sticky with sweat. He told him to get rid of the clothes and a sleepy puppy Rafael was willing to do everything for him. He brought a hot towel from the bathroom, wiping Rafa’s sweaty body while checking his knees and wrists. Rafa giggled at his fingers touching those sensitive skin over his joints. It was a good sign that showed there was probably nothing serious. He tugged Rafa up and leaned against the headboard, fingers tangling in his hair, stroking through those black strands soothingly. Rafa fell back to sleep quickly, but he was totally awake, sleepless, although he was tired from the long match, too. It had gotten harder and harder to dissemble his caring about Rafa since he experienced his own injury. He sat there for hours, drifting in his thoughts and finally left discreetly by dawn. He didn’t have an explanation for where he went, if Mirka asked, but she had gotten used to his disappearing for hours or days and showing up again in his normal state every now and then, before or after a big match or some big events in recent years.

 

 

***

 

 

He was awakened right after Roger sat beside him on the bed. The heat and pressure against his body were too warm and too solid to be a dream but he was such a coward that he couldn’t even face the reality. Those callused fingers combing through his hair and caressing over his scalp were so tender and loving, it made him tear. So he just pretended he was dreaming and sought comfort from the Swiss. It had been years since he allowed himself to do things like that, to show his weakness and timidity. He could be brave and strong. But just one night, let him forget all the love and pride. He would be okay the next morning.

 


End file.
